Think of England
by Senuna
Summary: AU. The war had robbed him of a piece of his soul and had left him more marred than he'd anticipated. Or, in which Sherlock and John reminisce the memories of a place they used to call their home. Rated T just in case.


Summary: AU The war had robbed him of a piece of his soul and had left him more marred than he'd anticipated. Or, in which Sherlock and John reminisce the memories of a place they used to call their home. Rated T just in case.

Disclaimer: I am borrowing the fictional characters of a brilliant (but very much not alive) writer. I salute you, Sir Doyle. You rock.

A/N: To express my secret and undying love for Alternate Universe stories, I finally dared to take the leap and write one short story of my own. The BBC show _Sherlock _has wormed its way into my heart and this piece is obviously a result of this newly found obsession. Also, the band _Bear's Den_ was a huge source of inspiration. This is the part where you go to YouTube and search for the song: Think of England. Hence the title.  
>Hope you enjoy.<p>

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><p><strong>Think of England<strong>

"You're not drinking as much as you used to."

Sherlock's thumb pressed against the lid of the flask, the scent of John's expensive brandy filling his nostrils when it gave way under the pressure. Normally, its contents helped his body offer resistance to the cold air biting his skin. He had needed it more often up in the Norwegian Mountains, where he could steal John's sweaters all he wanted but his lack of body fat had his teeth chattering anyway. Fortunately, spring was finally drawing closer, and these days the odour of the alcohol was only required to remind him of what he once had. Of what _we_ once had, Sherlock corrected himself.

"I'm the same old, John," Sherlock replied, his voice rough from disuse. "Same old."

He vaguely noticed John stir behind him, the dry grass crunching under the increasing pressure as his friend lowered himself to the ground. A quiet chuckle followed. "God, Sherlock, you can be _such _a woman at times. Drama queen, that's what you are." Shifting the heavy sword on his back in a more comfortable position, John grinned when Sherlock partly turned his body to fix him with an incredulous stare.

"What could I have possibly done in the incredibly short time span of our arrival to make you say that?" Sherlock said, his voice rising an octave to match his expression.

"You being all dramatic, right there," John lazily gestured towards Sherlock, "with that ridiculously long coat and bloody violin on your back, 'cause '_Music can be a sanctuary when the world is imprisoned, John'."_ He added that last part in a poor impression of Sherlock's voice, feeling a fond smile tug at his lips for his friend's rant earlier that day.

"There's no need for the both of us to carry—" Sherlock started to repeat himself before John interrupted him. "Yeah, yeah, I heard you Sherlock, swords are of no use against the extensive power of The Web," he said, suddenly sounding tired as his left hand came up to roughly rub at his face while the other supported his weight.

Sherlock's remained silent and allowed his gaze to flick back to the ruins before him, stretching from the base of the hill to the horizon in the far distance. Blue had been replaced by a soft pink as the sun continued its slow decent. Memories of a place now long lost flooded his mind; small fragments of its people, the tall buildings, the strong beating of London's heart, of his _home_. The war had robbed him of a piece of his soul and had left him more marred than he'd anticipated.

"For the record," John said softly, startling Sherlock out of his musings, "I am glad you did. Bring it, I mean." He swallowed down the lump suddenly forming in his throat. "It reminds me of Baker Street. Of home."

"So do you, John."

The low gentle rumble of Sherlock's voice was barely audible over the howling wind, but John heard. Silently, he unfastened the heavy metal clasp on his chest, the leather straps hugging the broad sword to his torso falling behind him. Pushing the weapon aside, John leaned back until the grass tickled the exposed skin where his armour couldn't provide protection.

There was no mistaking the quiet emotion behind Sherlock's reply and it had left him speechless, fumbling for a reply that could voice the way it lifted his heavy heart.

Taking a few steps backwards so his feet aligned with John's head, Sherlock started to mimic John's motions and worked loose the small golden clasp resting on his collarbone. He reached behind him, his fingers closing around the worn wood of his violin instead of cold steel. Sherlock placed the base of the instrument under his chin, relishing the feel of the familiar texture against his jaw. He waited patiently for John to find his voice again, as playing the violin required his undivided attention and for Sherlock it was hardly a deduction that a question was still lingering in John's mind.

"Sherlock?"

_Ah, there it is. "_Yes, John?"

A pause. "Do you lie back, and think of England?"

The bow dancing across the strings was all John needed to know.

**End**


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